The folders felt heavier than they should have.
Not because of weight—though there were enough of them, stuffed full of trial logs and sealed reports, some with brittle edges and ink faded to a memory. No, it was the weight behind them. The screams buried in redacted lines. The lives behind those numbers. Subjects.
I tucked the final stack into my backpack and slung it over my shoulder, careful not to crush the older files. I did one last sweep of the attic. Nothing else worth keeping. Just ghosts. Ones I wasn't ready to face. Not yet.
The ladder creaked again as I descended. Dust still danced in the air like ash.
I stepped into the hallway, fingers brushing along the faded wallpaper. I was already halfway to the door when I stopped.
My feet wouldn't move.
Something pulled at me. A memory wrapped in the ache of childhood.
I turned back.
The door to my parents' bedroom was closed. Same as it had always been. But the paint had peeled more. The handle had rusted.
